


Frank Sinatra Was That Girl

by graywrites



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/F, Kinda?, Post-Break Up, idk what this is man it just! came to me in a dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 15:37:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13010850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graywrites/pseuds/graywrites
Summary: Everything is impossible; most specifically, love and everything that comes before and after. Alex is trying her luck between pretending there's a fresh start somewhere in the undergrowth and wondering how she can want two things at once when Maggie is the sun.





	Frank Sinatra Was That Girl

**Author's Note:**

> listen i know this is bad and i know this is short and i know the title doesn't make sense but when somethings in my head it either goes onto the internet forever or i DIE! i wrote this with the song "something stupid" by frank sinatra as kinda this inspo so! you know. anyways just like read it even if it's bad idk its late i have a snow day

 

“We can’t keep doing this,” should be, debatably, the last thing you want to hear right now, bated breath and bleeding whiskey through your pores, doing the doorstep drunk dance, waking up early enough so that it’s never a walk of shame, or otherwise always hovering beneath the smog of midnight because you’re an adult, you’re an adult, and you _know_ you shouldn’t be doing this.

 

But it’s Maggie, always comes back to Maggie, shining and beautiful and carrying half of your being in her hands like it’s nothing, Maggie, who was there until she wasn’t or until she’s ready to come back around again, Maggie, in your bed, in your sheets, lips on yours, forehead dipping towards you, her breath so loud in your ears, like you can ever forget- about her, about this, about before.

 

Like it didn’t exist.

 

“Let’s say it’s the first time.” You’re drunk. You taste lime and craft beer, and you’re crossing paths again when you shouldn’t be, not when the universe is against you. It’s freezing, and the lights around you are low and orange. “I mean, let’s say. Just for tonight.”

 

You say it like an offer, she takes it like a promise. Like you can forget, like you can pretend until you’re dizzy and giggling or until you wake up and your head is pounding, pounding, _pounding_. Guilt cloaking you before it’s five am, and you disappear into the earth like you’ll never have to bother _again_.

 

“Hi, I’m Maggie.”

 

 _I know_ , you want to scream. You know, you’ve known, it takes up enough of your brain space to eat you alive, means more to you than anything, marks the empty space on your ring finger. _I know your name._

 

But, oh, God, how you’d like to play along. Act like it’s just once, like it never meant that much, or like you can make it all be one night long. Hit the reset button, you don’t love her, you don’t love her. Nothing is autobiographical; history doesn’t repeat itself. Perfume is insignificant, leather jackets are inconsequential, and nothing really matters in passing.

 

Say you don’t have the feeling of her body on yours mapped out in muscle memory replaying in your head. Say you don’t know her middle name or what she looks like when she cries, what she sounds like when she laughs.

 

You never wanted to get married, anyways. You don’t know what her hand feels like in yours, anyways.

 

No- rewind. Again and again. Start over. A girl in a bar or somewhere else, you don’t know her. Isn’t that easy? Don’t you just feel so free?

 

_Okay. I’m Alex._

Enough, it’s enough, it’s easy. Like there doesn’t have to be any history, or the world never fell down around you or anything. Like you don’t still love her, or never have. Like it wasn’t something so stupid and trivial that took it all apart for you.

 

You’re fine, you’re fine, it’s all brand new. You taste salt and skin. You’re five years younger or older when you feel her touch, you don’t think about what will or will not help you get over her because you don’t know her, or have otherwise possibly never known anyone before in your life.

 

She is the first, she is new and bright and fresh air, you will never suffocate again.

 

No guilt, no dark, all stars. All stars as you disappear and end up back home in your bed. Never think again.

 

 

It starts simple and new beginnings, but all old scars may show if given the opportunity, and every time you meet, it is with heavy heads and wounded hearts and far too drunk or pretending to be or fumbling hands all over and you’re sick of yourself the whole time, feel ridiculous the whole time until you come gasping up for air, but still, you miss the way she feels, miss the way the rhythm of her breathing swings in your ears as you sleep or pretend too, miss her eyes.

 

“This isn’t a good idea,” she tells you as her hands travel down your thighs, hips, wherever, hear breath in your ears, always, always.

 

“I know,” you say, which really only means _shup up,_ either in morse code or beggar’s terms, and then she keeps moving like the world is ending tomorrow (maybe it is) and her lips are _everywhere_ , and it’s like _before_ , or like it’s all fine, or like the future doesn’t matter, and she’s the sun, it always comes back to her, the center of all love or everything that’s ever sent your senses into hyperdrive, and it’s like when she loved you, like before you had to worry or before you ever needed anything more than right then and there, it’s like no time has passed, like when you’re finished you’ll fall asleep together and wake up in her arms to a universe that is soft and kind.

 

And, oh, the stars _burn_ outside, no time has passed, no time has passed, you’re drenched in moonlight and you gasp, forehead on her collarbone, “I love you.”

 

Heartfelt and honest and hurts in your mouth once you say it, something else that reminds you to keep your mouth shut, another palm driven into your temple. _I love you, I love you, I love you_. You shouldn’t say it. You should know better. She says it in the silence, you can feel it through the heartbeat on her wrist.

 

She stops, body stalls. Everything was perfectly fine for three seconds, and you were bathing in it, so you had to go and blurt out the first stupid instinct in your constricted chest, like it wasn’t enough to ruin everything without embarrassing yourself, too. Without letting everything _hurt_ , raw nerves and shaking shoulders.

 

You would rather disappear.

 

“ _You know that we can’t do this anymore. You know._ ” She doesn’t say, _it’s why we broke up in the first place_ , or, _if this were okay we would still be together, anyways_.

 

She knows, better than you do, what she can and cannot say.

 

She lets you leave like that, doesn’t twist the knife. Looks sad, and you figure it’s either pity or a more personal pain, selfishly hope it’s the latter, forget you still love her, forget tonight and a dozen others, put a numerical value on life and love and the sun. The universe is only kind for three seconds at a time.

 

 

You spent the next quarter of everything going between rage and whiskey, which, you figure, is just part of the grieving process.

 

Blame is sour between your teeth but it’s the best you can do to not feel so terribly _helpless_. It shouldn’t matter, it shouldn’t matter. You know that, but it does. It aches, and you’re used to it and that changes nothing, which is maybe even worse.

 

You don’t have _time_ for that, don’t have time to fall to pieces over someone else, so hung up and irresponsible, how could you do that, how could you be _that_ girl? You hated that girl, the one who came apart, or pitied her at best.

 

Never had you thought you might be that girl.

 

God, relationships had been _so_ much easier before Maggie. Relationships and everything else, all of that is nothing more than a set chemical reaction, shouldn’t matter at all, basic science, love is math, it’s so _simple_ , so why does it leave you like this?

 

Whiskey and rage; Maggie’s fault. Before Maggie, you were on your own, always on your own, perfectly fine. You were a _fighter_. Independent. You didn’t _need_ anything. You had your guard up until _Maggie_. Maggie, who was the sun. Maggie, every beautiful and unsteady in your chest. Maggie, who had hurt you before and then promised she’d stay, Maggie, who was always on the way out.

 

Perhaps, Maggie had ruined you. You were _that girl_ , you were pathetic. _God_. Because it came back to her, always to her, for the better part of anything that made your heart sing, it came back to her, and now you were _ruined_. Like you couldn’t be on your own anymore, couldn’t function like a normal _person_ any more.

 

Wild energy and indignant rage sent your thoughts swinging in a circle, and you knew better; you couldn’t be _that_ girl, not over one girl. A single pretty girl is not the world, and commitment is not the end all be all to everything. You would rather be _free_.

 

But, if that was true, then why are you crying?

 

 

Despair and righteous protest eat away at you from both sides long enough so that every cell in your body starts to scream _get over it!_ all at once, which really only makes you feel worse.

 

When Maggie Sawyer shows up in your doorway a few drinks in, half past two in the morning under nothing but the faith that you’d still be awake, it is your best flimsy calling sign that we might all just be that girl.

 

Her eyes are red and small, she’s leaning and apologetic, fingers drumming against her jeans.

 

_Isn’t there anything we can do?_

You’re tempted to ask the same question. She looks hopeless; you feel the same.

 

You invite her in; you’re always inviting her in, you need to stop inviting people in. You know that. You thought she knew better than you, but her eyes are red and she’s following your lead.

 

She sits down, repeats her question, you both want to cry, but don’t. Hands out and open, empty in the air, fumbling, always fumbling, and the whiskey is still there. You start slow and helpless, but after a while it’s yelling, too.  

 

You air out your grievances, you dig out every qualm, old and new, go over everything you wouldn’t say eight hours before or after three am, write it all down and lay it out in front of your raw hearts until you’re both crying, until you can understand why it hurts like it does, and why it might never stop all of the way.

 

You ask every question you can think of to a universe that is either ambivalent or apathetic because you can’t think of any reason not to, and there is fire in your chest until the two of you are bitingly _angry_ at some ghost of a third party, until you can be a team, again, against everything terrible that may be stacked up against anything good and sweet.

 

How can someone want two things at the same time? How can someone choose a hypothetical half possibility over something real and here and now? How could anyone be so stupid? Why is there so much friction everywhere? How can something so small destroy something so beautiful? Why does it have to be like this?

 

_It isn’t fair, it isn’t fair, it isn’t fair!_

You feel like a kid again in the worst way, but by the time it’s all over, there’s nothing left to fan the flame in your chest, and you wonder if that’s what they mean when they say catharsis before being too tired to wonder anything ever again, too tired of fighting something that will always win, and so you fall asleep in each other’s arms with the definition for the word _bittersweet_ playing over and over in your head like a bedtime story and wake up alone, and then you inhale.

**Author's Note:**

> hey um! not to be that guy but literally the only thing that keeps me going is getting feedback on my mess of writing so go ahead and leave a fuckin review. hell leave a whole ass critique in fact just like. idk. tell me your thoughts. feelings. about this.  
> anyways if u wanna talk to me/wanna request a fic u can hmu @ kryptomb.tumblr.com/ask


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